Last week the County embarked on a count of Santa Monica’s homeless.
In the second of two parts, Lookout reporter Oliver Lukacs tagged
along to put faces on the numbers.

By Oliver Lukacs
Staff Writer

January 31 -- A short, petit, good-humored woman with a terrific
laugh, Jisele Sanchez, 39, has been unemployed for nine months and is
about to be knocked off the welfare roles.

The reality of becoming homeless is closing in, a reality Sanchez would
come face to face with last Tuesday night when she hit Santa Monica’s
streets to count the city’s homeless for a countywide census that will
help determine funding for social service agencies.

Like many participating in the count, Sanchez showed up for the $50 --
one of the few things left standing between her and the street.

"It's kind of sad, for someone like myself,” Sanchez says. “I never
considered myself a part of a group like this, the almost homeless. I
just can't believe how many people are going through this."

Sanchez became “almost homeless” after a crisis of conscience. Realizing
she hated the service industry, she quit her job and has been unsuccessfully
attempting to transition into a different career.

"Subconsciously I wanted to see this (Tuesday night’s census count)
for myself and shock myself into reality, to not become homeless. Scared
straight,” she says.

“I'm prepared to sell everything but the most valuable things, whatever
it takes, but I'm not living on the street. I can't believe people can
accept a life like that.”

So Sanchez sees her choice as becoming homeless or returning to doing
something she hates for a living?

"A this point, yeah."

***

It’s 1:20 a.m. on the Third Street Promenade and Nick Fiaschetti, a Texan,
and Skylar Deranick, the 23-year-old who escaped the small town of Danville,
Illinois for Hollywood, have finished their count.

There's still 30 minutes left before they have to hook up with the two
other members of the census team and head back to cash in on the statistics.

Barring a miracle, Fiaschetti says he will enlist in the army reserves
tomorrow to avoid becoming homeless.

There's a karaoke in a local bar, and Fiaschetti has already been belting
out Christian rock songs all night, so he decides to go in to ham it up
on the open microphone. When he takes the mike, he sings the Nirvana standard
"Come As You Are."

Outside, sitting on the Blue Bus bench, is Troy Hill, a moderately well-dressed
19-year-old who was one of the 70 people turned away as a census counter
at the Ken Edwards Center earlier that night.

A runaway from Paramount, for over a year Hill has been among the 2,000
homeless estimated to be living on the streets of Santa Monica on any
given day.

He recently got off the street with the help of Santa Monica’s social
service agencies, which received $6.1 million last year, $1.8 million
from the City.

Based on his time living in the area, Hill believes the ranks of the
homeless are swelling, a suspicion echoed by officials overseeing the
count.

The growth comes despite the local get-tough laws passed prohibiting
people from bedding down in storefront doorways Downtown and limiting
food giveaway programs in City parks, linking them to social services.

“I tried sleeping in the doorways on the Promenade, but every time I
fell asleep a cop would wake me up," Hill says matter-of-factly.
“The laws are working. There used to be a lot more feeding lines, but
that died down."

By making it harder to grab a free lunch and sleep on the streets, the
laws were meant to make Santa Monica less attractive to the homeless and
weed out those who resisted help getting off the streets.

But that didn't turn out to be the case, Hill says.

"There's still a lot of homeless here. Basically it's hard as hell
to get off the streets. But if anyone really wants to get off the street
they can do it here."

Hill is explaining how "death is a better alternative than living
on the streets" and recalling his aborted attempt to enlist in the
military, (which rejected him for hyperactive disorder,) when Fiaschetti
steps out of the bar, an older woman on his arm. They are both laughing
and smiling.

"We gotta go, it's 1:50, we're gonna be late," Fiaschetti says.

But with the giggling woman, the two other team members wouldn't fit
in his little, white 4-seater with the Texas license plate.

"I'll drop you guys off at the Center, pick up the guys, and meet
you back there," Fiaschetti says.

***

Back at the center, chaos brews in the hallways. Tired, frustrated counters
jockey to be next in line to cash in and grab the complimentary lunch
sacks filled with a sandwich and fruit. There is no one to keep order
and the most aggressive are pushing through to the front of the line.

Mario Miles, one of the two team members Fiaschetti was supposed to pick
up, asks where the singing Texan is.

"He never met us, so we just walked back,” Miles says. “He's not
with you guys?"